Three to Heal
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Follow-up to my story Three for Tragedy. Several months after the shooting, the emotional wounds still cut deep.


**Maverick**

**Three to Heal**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! This is a follow-up that I was working on to my story **_**Three for Tragedy**_**, as I felt there would definitely be some emotional wounds left over from that experience that the boys would need to talk about. I wrote about half and then set it aside for a while. The sadness of the past weekend made me decide to pick it up again. And now I've finished it. As before, I've opted to ignore Brent, since he was created to just be a Bret clone. And there can only ever be one Bret Maverick. RIP, James Garner.**

_The bullet rang through the night, piercing his body as he collapsed to the floor on top of the cousin he had been trying to protect. Instantly he knew nothing more but pain._

_Pain that eventually drove him out of his body and left him for dead._

_Pain that shattered his cousins' hearts as it shattered his own._

_Pain that seemed destined to stay with them always._

He sprang upright in bed, gasping, haunted horror and anguish flashing through his eyes. For a moment he was back in the saloon, unwittingly taking the bullet that had sent him to his death. Then, groaning, he ran his hands through his hair and sat back, shivering in the cool night air.

He was not dead; he was alive.

He had to tell himself that over and over every night, when the same bad dream recurred. Sometimes he awoke so deeply into the dream that it was very difficult for him to not continue to believe in its truth.

The wound had healed, mostly. It had left a physical scar and several emotional scars. Every now and then it throbbed, either when the dreams became particularly intense or when the weather was going to be bad.

Sometimes the pain struck him without warning and he cringed unexpectedly. He laughed it off when it happened while others were present.

He laughed most things off in connection with the devastating injury, save for anything to do with the pain it had caused his cousins. When it came to the pain it had caused him, he kept it to himself.

He was supposed to be strong, unaffected, taking everything in stride. That was the Maverick way, after all. He wouldn't have himself thought to be unworthy of the family name. Nor did he want to cause more worry for his cousins by showing that he was not fully alright.

He threw back the covers and pushed himself up from the bed, going to the pitcher and bowl under the window. He splashed the cool water on his face, trying to rouse himself from the grim world of his dream. Then, with a disconsolate sigh, he grabbed the towel and patted his skin dry.

How could even he come back from the dead and be unchanged? It was a frightening, blemishing experience. He had remained an Earthbound spirit, watching helplessly as his normally levelheaded cousin Bart had completely unraveled into a hateful, vengeful fury, seeking revenge on the murderer. Not even Bret had been able to get through to him. In the end, it had been the dead man himself who had somehow finally appeared and got through to Bart's senses.

And he had been allowed back, why? Because Heaven didn't need him? Because he wasn't supposed to have died? It would have been nice if he could have simply been prevented from dying in the first place, then!

He sighed again, tiredly, and shuffled back to bed. He was grateful to have been sent back. Sometimes it felt so wrong that he had returned with any emotional baggage. That made him look _un_grateful, to his way of thinking.

"I _am_ grateful for what was done for me and for the family by allowing me back," he said quietly in a half-prayer. "Don't think I'm not. But then, why can't I simply accept it and move on? Why must I be tortured by what happened? Why can't I just feel like myself again?"

And what scared him most of all was the disturbing, pestering idea that perhaps he never would fully get over this experience. Perhaps he never would again be the happy-go-lucky traveler on the inside as well as on the outside.

Discouraged, he laid back down and attempted sleep.

xxxx

Bart was waiting for him the following morning, when he dressed and went downstairs to the hotel dining room.

"Hello, Cousin Beau," he greeted, folding and setting the morning newspaper aside.

"Good morning, Cousin Bart," Beau smiled, slipping into a chair next to his devious and crafty relation. "And what sort of devilish plot have you been coming up with for today?"

"Well," Bart said with a deliberate drawl, "I've been hearing rumors about a big poker game running in Denver today. If you're feeling up to it, I thought we might ride over there and see if it's worth our time."

"That sounds promising," Beau nodded. "I'm certainly feeling up to it. You know I'm doing better these days. Really, I'm completely healed."

"I know," Bart nodded. "Sorry, Beau."

Beau lifted the menu, partially to have a physical representation of the shield he had put up around himself. "No need to apologize for caring," he replied.

Both Bart and Bret had shown an uncustomary protective side after the shooting. Bart hadn't yet left Beau to go adventuring on his own, saying he wouldn't mind traveling together for a time. Bret had stayed with them for a short while but had soon become restless and left. He was, however, always close by, generally within several hours' ride should he be needed.

Beau appreciated it in one way and found it awkward in another. He knew the truth that they were all trying to deny to themselves and each other: none of them were fine. It was true what Bart had said when Beau had lain dying from the bullet wound—although they had all been hurt before, it had never been serious like that. The Maverick family had taken a deep blow, rocked to its very core. None of them had died for years, and certainly none of them had died from wounds sustained while engaging in the lifestyle they had all been taught.

Wasn't it terribly ironic, that Uncle Beau had been so horrified and outraged by Beau's courage and valor during the war and felt that such attitudes would kill him, but he hadn't sustained a single wound back then? Instead it was the world of the professional gambler that had given all of them the greatest number of their injuries and had, for all intents and purposes, killed Beau. Beau wasn't sure if that was ever on Bart or Bret's minds, but it had certainly been on his.

Uncle Beau was a curious puzzle, really. He had counseled both of his sons and his nephew on his personal code of ethics, which they all quoted from freely and generally professed to subscribe to, yet in actual practice they often strayed far from it. Every one of them tended to become involved with innocents on their travels and wound up trying to help them. Getting involved in other people's problems was most certainly not part of Uncle Beau's code. Yet even he sometimes seemed to end up doing likewise.

Still, Beau could not refrain from wondering at times if his uncle truly believed in his "every man for himself" philosophy so much that he even disapproved of the general idea of Beau's desperate attempt to save Bart's life. Beau certainly hadn't been trying to take the bullet himself, but his tackle hadn't been quick enough to save them both. That was the sort of thing Uncle Beau had feared would happen in the war, with Beau or Bart or Bret sacrificing himself for a comrade.

At least, Beau had always thought that Uncle Beau's stance was the result of just not wanting to see any of his family members killed. But the man had been so gruff and cold and even angry when he had arrived during Beau's recovery, scolding him for always being the brave one, that Beau had to wonder. Part of him had wanted to scream, _"You know, I __**did**__ save your son's life. Doesn't that count for anything at all?!"_ But as far as he knew, he had restrained himself.

He sighed to himself. Oh, what was the matter with him? He knew that was just how Uncle Beau showed he cared. He was even worse about showing it than the three of them were. Maybe they would even get like him when they were older.

"Beau?"

He started back to the present. "What is it?"

"The lovely little waitress wants to know what you're going to order," Bart said.

"Oh. Forgive me," Beau said, looking up at her. "I was lost in my thoughts."

She smiled at him. "That's alright. Some of the men say I cause that to happen to them."

"Yes, well, I can certainly see why," Beau smiled, not wanting to be baited into admitting that at this time, he hadn't been one of them. "Now then, as to the business of breakfast, I should like . . ." He recited several items off the menu, which the girl wrote down with a flourish.

"It'll be ready for you in a jiffy," she promised, half-bouncing around a table.

"Didn't you order?" Beau asked Bart, curious.

"Didn't I order?" Bart shook his head, regarding Beau in bemusement. "You really have been out of it. I ordered about five minutes before you did."

"Ah. That's good then." Beau scanned through the menu again before realizing what he was doing. He couldn't use it as his shield any longer right now. Sighing, he set it aside.

"Beau, what's wrong?" Bart asked, serious and sobered now. His eyes showed his genuine concern. He knew something wasn't right.

Beau hadn't been asked so point-blank before. It confused and startled him. Not sure how to respond, he finally shrugged and propped himself up with an elbow. "Why, nothing is wrong," he insisted. "I'm healed, we'll be off to Denver to win another pot . . . what could possibly be wrong?"

"I don't know," Bart said. "It's funny, you know; Bret was the one who suggested to me that maybe you're not as fine as you've been seeming. I hadn't even thought it myself. Then when he said it, I couldn't stop thinking it."

"What made him think it?" Beau retorted.

"I'm not sure exactly. He just thinks you seem off. I thought you were fine until he said otherwise." Bart's shoulders slumped. "Or maybe it's that I was seeing what I wanted to see. I wanted to believe you were fine because then it would be easier for me to be fine. And honestly, Beau, I'm not."

Beau frowned. "This is hardly the place to air our family problems, but I've known you haven't been fine. I haven't known how to bring it up. I suppose I kept hoping that as time went on, everything would get better. But it hasn't."

Bart looked at him with a mixture of relief and disbelieving amazement. "If you know, then . . . let's talk about it after breakfast," he pleaded. "We shouldn't put it off any longer."

Beau still wasn't that keen on revealing his own inner conflicts, but if Bart was ready to talk, Beau definitely didn't want to begrudge him the chance. "Alright," he agreed. "After breakfast."

xxxx

They gathered back in Bart's room after the very filling and very delicious meal. Beau stood, folding his arms. "Alright, now what's wrong with you?" he demanded.

Bart looked back. "I asked you first," he said.

"But I've probably seen your unrest longer," Beau replied.

Bart sighed, his shoulders slumping. "It just doesn't seem right," he said. "You're better—physically, anyway—and instead of being grateful for that and moving on, I keep worrying about whether something might happen again. I . . . I don't know; we haven't lost anyone since Momma, and we haven't lost anyone because of the life Pappy was determined for us to lead. But what happened to you came the closest of all." He clenched a fist. "I'm not sure I know how to deal with that, or with the fact of almost losing you in general.

"We _did_ lose you, really, for several hours. It was this horrible, dark cloud that hung over us and wouldn't let up. And unlike when Momma died, I alienated Bret and tried to solve my pain and guilt by going after the murderer for revenge." He ran a hand over his face. "I just feel so ashamed."

It felt like a weight being lifted from Beau's shoulders. "I've felt a lot the same," he admitted quietly. "Being dead was a nightmarish, horrible experience that I haven't been able to recover from. I feel like it's wrong of me—ungrateful, even—to feel that way.

"Uncle Beau really didn't help matters when he came out, either. He was constantly criticizing and berating me for going against his code and saying that should teach me to be so brave and gallant. For the first time in my life, I've questioned whether he really even cares about us." Beau shook his head. "And that has hurt far worse than anything else."

"Oh Beau. . . ." Bart steered him towards the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. "Bret and I didn't like how he talked to you, either. I actually told him he was being too hard on you and that you'd tried to avoid the bullet, even though you didn't make it." He sighed sadly. "We had a big argument over things because of me speaking up. We didn't tell you because we didn't want to give you one more thing to be upset about."

Beau frowned in concern. "I had no idea. What happened?"

"Well, we all stayed mad for a while. But finally, when Pappy was going to leave, he said he was glad we were both going to be alright and he hoped we'd be more careful in the future." Bart sighed. "His outburst at you really was just his way of showing he was worried."

"I really know that." Beau stared at the floor. "But I haven't been able to keep myself from wondering if he actually thought I should have just let you die, since I didn't have the option of drawing my gun to save you and had to put myself in danger instead. I can't believe he would carry his attitude that far, but being shot and killed left my mind in such a muddle that I haven't known what to think about anything."

"That would be enough to leave anyone's mind in a muddle," Bart insisted. "Beau, I'm sorry. We should have talked about all of this sooner. I stupidly thought you were okay for so long."

Beau sighed. "Where is Cousin Bret today, anyway?"

"Actually, he's right here," came Bret's voice.

Beau jumped a mile as Bret emerged from the door connecting the next room, but Bart was unsurprised. "Hello, Brother Bret," he greeted.

Beau just kept staring. "I know you haven't been far away, but isn't this even closer than usual?" he exclaimed.

Bret shrugged and leaned against the wall. "When I realized that you weren't doing so well, I figured I'd stick even closer to you. I was going to talk to you if Bart hadn't done it first."

"I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't pointed it out to me," Bart said, shamefaced.

"And what about you, Cousin Bret?" Beau asked. "Neither of us has been doing so well. It's your turn to lay your burden before us."

Bret sighed, but nodded his consent. ". . . I've hated that I wasn't around when it first happened," he said. "I keep thinking maybe I could've stopped it.

"Then I hate that I wasn't able to come sooner when I got Bart's telegram." He looked to his brother. "You were trying to cope all by yourself and going crazy because of it."

Bart looked down. "I couldn't help wishing you'd been here sooner," he admitted. "I don't know that I thought you could've stopped what happened, but I sure could have used you to talk to in those long and awful hours."

Beau rocked back. "Perhaps if I had noticed sooner what that disturbed man was up to, I could have had time to either fire at him or pull you out of the way without being hurt myself. I caused both of you so much pain."

"You saved my life, Beau, and for that I'll always be grateful," Bart said. "But if you hadn't come back, I would have always been haunted, too."

"We're all still haunted now," Bret pointed out.

"And what's the matter with us?" Beau exclaimed. "I'm alright—physically, anyway. We all should have just shrugged it off and moved on."

Bret drew a shaking breath. "I guess it was all just such a shock that it hasn't been that simple."

"And has it occurred to either of you the irony in the fact that this happened because of the lives Uncle Beau wanted us to lead, instead of the war?" Beau blurted.

"It has," Bret said.

"We've really been in and out of a lot of trouble because of working as professional gamblers," Bart sighed. "But this has definitely been the worst."

"The real question is, What are we going to do about it?" Beau asked.

"You mean, Do we want to stop?" Bret frowned.

Beau nodded. "Yes." He looked from Bret to Bart. "The two of you wouldn't even be living like this if you hadn't been framed for murder in Texas. You could always settle down somewhere else to start your ranch."

"I know," Bret said.

"And maybe partially that's what we're looking for—another place we like enough to want to settle down in," Bart added. "But we haven't found it yet.

"You, though, Beau, you're a traveler at heart. Could you ever stop?"

"I don't know," Beau sighed. "It's true that I love the life of the adventurer, always seeing new places and having new experiences. But do I love it enough that I will never want anything else? That's a question I can't answer right now."

"Probably because at this point, you can't imagine settling down," Bret said. "Which means you're not ready."

"Oh, sometimes I've thought of it," Beau said. "I would have settled in at the Golden Wheel Casino if it hadn't burned to the ground with no insurance. But I don't know if I would have stayed. After a while I might have taken in a new partner and started traveling again."

Bret nodded, looking thoughtful. "That might even happen to Bart and me if we ever do settle down," he said, glancing to Bart. "By now we've got a lot of the traveler's blood in our veins too."

"I think I'd be alright with settling down for real someday," Bart said. "If it was the right place and with the right people."

"Am I the right people?" Bret drawled.

Bart gave him a Look. "Well, it's been a few years since we were planning that ranch. Maybe I'll have to think about that for a while."

Beau chuckled. It felt good to have a genuine laugh about something again and not just be faking it.

"You know, actually we've gotten off the subject," Bret said. "The real question was whether we'd want to keep gambling, not traveling. We do know how to do at least a few other jobs, even though it's more fun winning other people's money."

"I think Pappy would disown us if we stopped gambling altogether," Bart said.

"And he'd probably know it was because of what happened and never forgive me for it," Beau said. "He'd say I 'corrupted' both of you."

Bret frowned. He could hear that there was still hurt in Beau's words. "Do you ever regret being packed off to England?" He had never inquired as to Beau's feelings on the matter; Beau had seemed so amiable about it at the time that Bret supposed he had believed that Beau had been looking forward to the adventure. Now, he was not as sure.

Beau fell silent, pondering on his answer. "I don't regret it exactly," he said slowly. "I loved England in and of itself. I felt so at home there that sometimes I've wondered if I was actually meant to be born there instead of here.

"But . . ." He clasped his hands tightly. "It honestly hurt that Uncle Beau felt I had disgraced the family name and wanted to be rid of me for a time. That's a burden that's hung over me since then—always being sure I'm worthy of being a Maverick. I'm surprised he hasn't said something about banning me again."

"I think if he came up with something like that another time, we'd put our feet down," Bret said.

Bart nodded. "I don't even think there'd be any sense in sending you away for another five years," he said. "And maybe Pappy really knows that. It's true what I said—that he said he was glad we were both going to be okay. No matter what he says about not sacrificing yourself for other people, when it was his own son, I think he had to make an exception."

"I hope so," Beau said fervently. "I don't want to think I've disappointed him again."

"Say, you wired us one time about running into a dishonest Maverick," Bret remembered. "What happened about that?"

"Oh. Well, at first I was going to let it be," Beau said. "I was just so relieved to find out he was a Maverick and that I wasn't losing to him because I had lost my touch. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I just couldn't let him keep operating freely. We only cheat criminals who have already cheated innocents, or us, but he was swindling anyone he could, including the innocent. And an honest Maverick should be able to trump a dishonest Maverick."

"And a dishonest Maverick really is a disgrace to the name," Bret added.

"Right. So, to make a long story short, I finally devised a plan to trick him at his own game and cause his dishonesty to backfire on him. And it worked." Beau looked justifiably proud of himself. "I was afraid his granddaughter would refuse to speak to me after that, but she actually applauded my efforts. She said it was about time someone other than she tried to teach him how to play honest."

Bart threw back his head and laughed. "And what about him? Was he anywhere as grateful?"

"Hardly," Beau said with a lopsided smile. "But he did finally concede defeat and I was able to return all the money he'd stolen in his latest swindle."

"Good," Bret said with a slow, deliberate nod of approval. "So what's he up to these days?"

"The last I heard, he was in jail." Beau continued to smile. "I found a judge he couldn't buy off."

"You don't think he might come after you when he gets out, do you?" Bart asked in concern.

"I should hope not," Beau retorted. "Violence didn't seem to be his style in general. Although his accomplice did strike me over the head and render me unconscious for a while."

Bret winced. "I could hardly believe it when Bart gave me a rundown of some of your crazy adventures just over the course of one year. Not only were you accused of murder left and right, you've also been knocked out a lot more often in so short a time than either Bart or me. Beau, you're just a magnet for trouble."

"Yes, I suppose that might be why Uncle Beau worries in particular over me," Beau said wryly. "I'm not only a magnet for trouble, I'm the, shall we say, white sheep of the family. And I bear his Christian name."

"And all of that's a combination that doesn't sit well with Pappy at all," Bret proclaimed.

"To put it mildly," Bart added.

Beau sighed, tiredly. "Well, we don't seem to be getting much of anywhere with this conversation."

"Maybe not, but doesn't it feel good to finally just talk about things for a while?" Bret suggested.

Bart and Beau considered that. "It does," Beau said at last.

"I didn't even realize I was carrying so much around inside until today," Bart admitted.

"And maybe if we just keep talking about things, even if it seems insignificant, we'll gradually start feeling better," Bret said.

"That makes sense," Beau nodded.

"Sure it does," Bret smiled.

Still, Beau hesitated. "Do you think things will ever fully go back to how they were, though?"

"How do you mean?" Bret wondered.

"Will we completely stop being as protective as we feel right now?" Bart supplied.

"Will I ever stop having night terrors and being haunted about having been out of my body for a while?" Beau added.

Bret looked down. "And will I ever stop raking myself over the coals for not being here sooner?" He shook his head. "You know, I bet some guilt will always stay with us. Probably some of the haunted feelings, too. No, after something like this, I don't think things could ever go back to exactly how they were before. Something like this changes people. It's changed all of us.

"But here's a thought. How about we try to see that it mostly changes us for the better? It feels good to be more open with each other. Let's keep it that way."

Bart considered that. "I can live with that."

"So can I," Beau agreed.

"And as for whether we'll keep on gambling, I don't think any of us would want to give it up altogether. Would we?" Bret looked to Bart and Beau, who both shook their heads. "Maybe we'll want to move a little more cautious for a while, but I'm sure we'll keep at it."

"I'm really sure, too," Bart admitted.

"Yes," Beau nodded. "I don't want to be scared off because of what happened. But you know, I also don't know that I want to spend my entire life just doing this."

"Then maybe we'll want to keep our eyes open for other things we think we'd like," Bret said. "Even if it'd break poor Pappy's heart for any of us to go into other lines of work."

"How did he feel about you and Cousin Bart opening a ranch?" Beau had to wonder.

"He . . . didn't like it much," Bret said with a smile. "Not if we were going to stay there and run it instead of leaving it up to other people to run it."

"But we were pretty determined for a while there," Bart said.

"Good for you," Beau said. "Although I hate to think what Uncle Beau must have said."

"It wasn't anywhere as bad as what he said to you when the war was over," Bret said. "Running a ranch, well, there's good money in that, and you know how Pappy loves good money. But volunteering for the Army and setting yourself up for the possibility of getting yourself killed, not to mention you actually getting a medal, well . . ."

"Don't remind me," Beau shuddered.

"We've got a really mixed-up family," Bart offered. "But there is genuine love and caring, Beau, on everybody's parts. I can promise you that."

"And I really know that," Beau nodded. "Sometimes, though, it's nice to have a reminder."

Bret smiled. "And now that that's settled, why don't we have a nice game before we head on to Denver or wherever we're going?" He reached into his pocket for a deck.

Bart eyed the deck suspiciously. "I don't mind the thought of a game, but are you planning to deal, Brother Bret?"

"Well, I'd rather you weren't dealing," Bret said innocently. "You cheat in our little friendly games."

"I'm sure I've caught you cheating more than a few times," Bart said.

"Why don't I deal?" Beau suggested. "It's been a while since all three of us have played together, and I don't recall being the dealer during many of those times."

Both Bret and Bart looked to him. "And how can we be sure you won't cheat too?" Bret retorted.

"You can't," Beau said with a cheeky smile.

Bret looked to Bart. "What do you think, Brother Bart? Shall we chance it?"

Bart pretended to consider it and then shrugged and nodded. "Why not. After all, if we are cheated, we can always find a way to get back at our dear cousin."

"That's the spirit," Beau smiled, moving to the nightstand to use it as the table.

xxxx

It was late that night, after their arrival in Denver and while Beau was readying himself for bed, that a knock came on his hotel door.

"Come in," he said in surprise, looking up from the pitcher and bowl on the nightstand.

The door opened and Bart slipped inside. "Well, you seem to be settling in just fine," he smiled. Sobering, he added, "But are you really alright, Beau?"

"I think I will be," Beau nodded, speaking in all sincerity. "For the first time since this happened, I truly feel I will recover in every way.

"What about you?"

"I feel the same," Bart said. "I think Bret does too."

"Then at least in some ways, the most important ways, perhaps things will go back to normal," Beau said.

"I think you're right," Bart said. "And maybe in at least some of the ways things are different, we can make them better than before, like Bret said."

"I'd like that," Beau said appreciatively.

Bart nodded. "So would I.

"Say, if Bret and I ever do decide to settle down and open that ranch, do you think you'd want to pull in with us?"

"Perhaps," Beau said thoughtfully. "I will certainly give it some thought."

"Bret thought you would. And if you'd want to, we'd both be glad to have you aboard." Bart headed for the door. "I'll let you sleep now."

"Thank you. I'll see you in the morning," Beau promised.

Several minutes later he settled into the bed and extinguished the light. Yes, the future definitely looked brighter than before, in more ways than one. And even if he dreamed again about having been dead, at least he could be comforted in the knowledge that in reality he had been returned to life. That hadn't been enough before, but after having talked with his cousins, perhaps it would be enough now.

He smiled to himself as he dozed.


End file.
